


two weeks

by Larrant



Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:30:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Larrant/pseuds/Larrant
Summary: Tyrell shoots Elliot in the head. The only adequate thing to do is start dropping gifts off for him at the hospital.





	

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by/for @punslinger on tumblr  
> credit goes to them  
> (my own tumblr is: itsakylo)
> 
> 12/02/17 : minor edits

 

On the first day Elliot is out of ICU, Tyrell brings a little bouquet of wildflowers and daisies. Perhaps it is because flowers are the usual gift. They are polite, not vapid, not pretentious. Normal. The flowershop down the road tinkles its soft bell when he enters, he slides a charismatic smile to his face at the cashier.

He hesitates, though, when he reaches the hospital ward. The fourth floor, and the elevator is chiming shut behind him. A nurse wheels a patient past him, and Tyrell snaps out of his stupor.

Perhaps, he thinks, this was not such a good idea.

He leaves the flowers at the front desk.

On the second day, he drives past an old bookshop. He stops his car several yards away, reverses, parks. An old leatherbound catches his eye, silver embossed with the printed title- the Trial. Yellowed pages and creases on the upper left corners, he purchases it and picks up a bookmark on the way out. He finds himself at the hospital on the same day, leaves both in a little bag in the possession of the same receptionist he had seen the day before.

He doesn't remember her name.

She smiles at him. He smiles back. He leaves, clammy sweat under his shirt, damp on his wrist.

The third day dawns with sun through his blinds. He goes to the market, and picks out two apples, red and pink with mottled patches of gold. He asks the hospital receptionist for a pen, for a scrap piece of paper. _I'm sorry_ appears on the white printer paper, cursive and neat, and then he pauses, forgets why he had written it. Perhaps he realizes better. The paper crumples in his hand, he apologizes to the receptionist. 

He writes several notes that night. They burn themselves in his fireplace, crackling and aflame.

A sprig of lavender on the fourth morning, pale bow at the front and plastic bag tied around the stem. _Jag älskar dig_ , he writes, and slides it in inside the packaging, because Elliot will not understand it, and Elliot will not have the means to translate it. He hopes it is enough.

On the fifth day, he works overtime until nine at night. He overdoses on his mood medication. He misses visiting hours. 

He wakes at five in the morning instead, dark bags under his eyes and coffee pod in the machine. Plain toast and then he is buying a bouquet of tulips. White tulips. The woman at the counter smiles at him; as if they share something now, something intimate, because he has visited twice in a week. Perhaps it is simply called being nice.

On the seventh day he reads an online article that goes something like this; 'the most precious gift you can give a family member in hospital is your company'.

Tyrell does not think Elliot would be happy to see him.

He goes out to buy a panini.

Coincidentally, eating a ham panini on the way back, he stumbles on an antique shop. He stares at a grandfather clock, he eyes curled silver cuffs through a glass partition. He doesn't drop off gifts that day. There's a sinking feeling inside him and he throws up in the kitchen sink, thinking about the weight of a gun in his hands.

 _Jag älskar dig.  Jag älskar dig_. _Jag är ledsen. Förlåt mig._ It is ten in the morning on the eighth day. Tyrell is scribbling in the margin of a notepad filled with code. The cornershop offers him a packet of organic grapes, and he visits the hospital at five thirty. The reception beams at him. Her name is Sarah.

He wonders, on his way out, whether Elliot knows who the gifts are from. Whether he's eaten the apples or not. When he is home, he is unable to concentrate. He stares at the ceiling, watches the lice creep across the walls.  _Förlåt mig._

The ninth day dawns and he goes back to the antique shop. A slim vase, handcrafted, hand decorated, baroque in its detail. He pays for it with three notes from his wallet. He drops it off with a bouquet of flowers, almost able to pretend he is comfortable with the situation.

Sarah tells him to leave a note on the tenth day. A real note, maybe, or perhaps to just leave a note again. He remembers she hadn't been there when he left his first note. _I'm sorry_ , he writes, again, and he does not crumple it this time. _I'm sorry_ , and he leaves it at that. He folds the paper into four, folds it again and includes it in the small package of wrapped peaches.

He doubts Elliot will read it.

It's raining on the eleventh day. He walks out without an umbrella. The rain soaks his shirt, the cold seeping into his bones. An acorn is sitting on the side of the road. Perfect and unblemished. Water slides down his neck, down underneath his collar.

Several hours later, in a tentative sun, he leaves a copy of a book of a poems with the hospital front desk. The acorn goes with it.

On the twelfth day, there is a computer repair shop by the street he goes to buy bread. He had not noticed it before now. After he talks about his work, the owner gives him a motherboard and two CPU extensions. Tyrell pays in cash.

He thinks about his father again, walking home carrying his motherboard and CPU extensions. He thinks about his hometown in Vadstena, his mother, his cousins. His father who had paid for Tyrell's tuition with his life's savings, sent him to America to indulge the American dream. On his second trip out, he buys plums, purple and ripe, sweet in the air when he brings them home. Too late, he is reminded of the colour of bruises.

 _Jag älskar dig,_ he writes again on the thirteenth day, gently folds it the shape of a crane and lets it fly from a window. He watches it glide, follows as it fall down and is lost behind the roof of a terrace. He's heard if you make a thousand cranes, your wish will come true. He does not have enough paper for that.

Breathing in the tepid air, Tyrell picks himself up and goes to the flowershop. The white petals of tulips look startlingly similar to those of white roses, when you peel them off and put them together. He quietly asks for two roses in his bouquet.

A thousand cranes, and a single wish. He sits in the park until it is dark, until the moon has risen high in the night sky. The stars are iron, and cold.

The fourteenth day dawns with clouds in a gray sky. He purchases two apples- shiny and red, like he had bought a week and a half ago, and smiles to himself when he passes through the checkout. At the hospital the receptionist pauses and says; “By the way, I've heard your friend’s been asking for you”. He blinks. Sarah shrugs.

“You should bring them to him.” She says, like it's advice and he should take it. And then she tells him Elliot’s floor and room number. So he goes, without thinking, back up to the fourth floor, and down the corridor and left, and then he stops in front of a door. A moment turns to two. Two moments turn to four. He hesitates.

And knocks.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
